


Me Against You

by 3rdgymbros



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, F/M, Friends fighting, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-15 03:30:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10549328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3rdgymbros/pseuds/3rdgymbros
Summary: Spiderman and you are on opposite sides. Things go about as well as one can expect.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This was actually requested on my tumblr, and I hope I’ve done this request justice! It was fun to write for the Spider-bae, so do send in more requests about him!

“Keep going, **(Y/N)**!” Sam hollers. “Get to the jet!”

You hunker down behind a bench. From your vantage point, you can see Spiderman kicking Sam and Bucky into a pane of safety glass. You duck your head to shield your eyes, so you don’t actually see the windows explode. But you hear it. You feel it, too. Those little shards of glass _hurt_ as they pelt onto bare arms and legs.

You wish you’d thought to wear jeans.

_“Go!”_

You go. You rise from behind your cover and sprint. Coach would be so proud, if only he could see you now.

_“Your, mission, should you choose to accept it, is to get through enemy territory, and hijack their jet.”_ So Captain America hadn’t said it in those words _exactly_ , but the point he’d been trying to get across was essentially the same. Bucky and Sam would keep you from having to engage anybody, leaving you free to slip over to the Hangar and get the jet prepped and ready to go. You would have loved to pilot a jet – say, maybe, after about _ten years_ of lessons, not after some hastily given instructions from ex-Agent Barton – and had told Captain America as much. You only had a learner’s permit for driving a _car_ , not some fancy, high-tech jet, but he was adamant on having you as the getaway driver.

And, if you were being honest, having _Captain America_ relying on you for help was pretty darn awesome.

“Behind you!”

Bucky’s warning comes too late. As you run onward and duck into a hallway, spandex-covered arms embrace you from behind – one around your shoulders, one around your waist. You put on an extra spurt of speed. The hands latch on. A shrill scream splits the air. It sounds like you. But it’s a futile effort – Sam and Bucky are securely trussed up, sticky webbing keeping them pinned to the floor. Even if they wanted to help, they couldn’t.

“ _Let me go!_ ” You demand, twisting and kicking. “Let me go right this instant!”

Inexplicably, the arms around you slacken; drop gracelessly back to their owner’s sides. You scramble away, with wide and frightened eyes, until the small of your back hits the concrete wall.  

_“ **(Y/N)**?”_ You stiffen. _Oh, no._ Please _, no._ The voice, though woolly and quiet, is thoroughly familiar to you, from years of _studying with him_ , _talking to him_ , _being friends with him_. “Oh, God. Oh, _God,_ why are you here? **(Y/N)** , you shouldn’t be here.”

“Peter?” You blurt out. “Peter, is that you?”

“I – I’m not –” He’s nervously tripping over his words, trying to come up with a suitable lie. “I’m Spiderman, not –”

Your lips twist up in a sad smile. “You’re a rotten liar, Peter.”

And this time, he doesn’t try to deny it.

The two of you had been best friends ever since the second grade, when your nanny had forgotten to pack your lunch one day, and Peter had given you half of his tuna and mayo sandwich. You’d shared every day, every moment … Every secret.

However, it would appear, not _every_   secret.

“So … Spiderman, huh?” You manage, letting out a watery laugh that doesn’t hold any real humor in it. Spiderman might have saved you once, but this side of Peter is new and entirely foreign, much like the new and shiny suit that he’s sporting. “You’ve – You’ve really been busy, huh?”

You wonder when Peter was going to tell you; or if he was even planning to. Ever since Uncle Ben had passed, Peter had been acting strange: Showing up to school bruised and bloodied, cancelling days out together with only the flimsiest of excuses, showing up late to the appointments he _did_ agree to go for …

And now you finally _, finally_ know why.

“I-I’m sorry, **(Y/N)** ,” Peter says miserably. Even under the mask, you know that his forehead is creased and puckered up, warm chocolate eyes downcast. “I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t – There was never a good time.”

_Of course not._

“So what you’re really saying is: You don’t trust me.” It bursts out of you. You’ll admit there’s a sour surge of satisfaction when Peter recoils, even though you haven’t raised a hand to him. It comes out again, louder this time. “That’s what it all boils down to, doesn’t it? I thought we were _friends_. I _trusted_ you. I told you _everything_ – the _boys_ I liked, the _crushes_ I had. I thought –”

“ _Me?_ ” Peter’s glumness turns into irritation, and you realise your mistake. “ _I’m_ not the only one keeping secrets! _You_ didn’t tell me that you’d be running around with Captain America and a bunch of –”

_\- Criminals._ He doesn’t say it, but you know that’s what he means. The word hits you like a ton of bricks. You stare at Peter, not moving, not even blinking. A day ago, that wouldn’t have meant _you._ A day ago, you and Peter would have been in _school._ A day ago, the two of you would have still been _friends._

When you had accepted Captain America’s request for help, you didn’t think that you’d have to face off with your best friend in the process.

“ **(Y/N)** , I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean –”

He’s cracked something in you wide open. You stride away from the boy you once knew, but you can’t leave yet.

_“Fine,”_   You say, infusing the word with venom. “Then _arrest_ me. Take me in. I’m just a _criminal_ , right?”

Your voice rises in octaves, building up to a high crescendo. Your anger rises up, blooming in your chest like a poisonous flower, and you focus on that, since it chases away the chill that permeates deep into your bones. Blind now with a mingled combination of hurt and anger, your hand lashes its way through the air in a flicking motion, forcing the powers sleeping deep inside you to the surface. Even though Peter’s standing motionless at least six feet away, he’s shoved up into the air by an invisible force, slamming into the window behind you hard enough to crush bones. He flies out the window with a shriek.

You turn away from the remnants of shattered glass and a broken friendship, gloom already gathering atop your shoulders to weigh you down. In another life, you might have been _fighting_ by his side, the two of you working together as Avengers. Now you’ve become public enemy number one.

_Criminal, criminal._ Your mind chants it over and over again, in a sing-song, lilting voice, matching each syllable with your racing pulse. _I’m a criminal._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “(Y/n), please,” Peter’s voice is soft and familiar. At least it’s him, and not that scary-looking guy in the black cat suit. Your heart swells in relief when you see that he looks relatively unscathed from his abrupt tumble out the window, but the sight of him makes you feel sick all over again about what you’ve done, what you’ve said – and his willingness to toss aside years of friendship for Tony Stark. “We need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: If you like what I write, please leave a review!

Your recent fight with Peter makes it difficult to come back to the airport. Your talk with him about  _trust_  and  _friendship_  haunts you, and you try to imagine him fighting.  _Who’s winning?_   _Is it us, or them? Since when had there been an_ ‘us’  _or a_  ‘them’ _?_   _Is he getting beaten up?_  You know it’s ironic, considering that you’ve just shoved Peter out a window, but there’s still a small part of you hoping that the others will go easy on him.

Try as you might, you can’t just erase years of friendship with a snap of your fingers.

Those traitorous tears well up again, and you swipe them aside impatiently. There will be time to cry later, to mourn what you have lost. Now, you have to keep yourself from falling apart so you can give your best in the fight.

A large jet sits in the middle of the hangar floor, large enough to carry at least ten people. It vaguely resembles a shark, with a sharp nose, sleek body and wings for steering. Ex-agent Barton had explained earlier that for each ship, there’s supposed to be a pilot, co-pilot, two wing-men to control the computer-aided blasters, and a flight leader to check the route, communicate with the team leader and base, and carry out other administrative tasks.

“The hatch, get the hatch open,” You mumble to yourself, your fingers finding the button on the side of the jet.

With a hiss, the hatch pops open, and a ramp slides out. You run inside, keeping a careful eye on the doors to the hangar. You’d managed to wrench them shut with a flick of your hand, but there’s no telling how long it’ll take before someone gets them open again.

Inside you find walls that are black where they aren’t covered by grids upon grids of back-lit buttons, all different colors and sizes, as well as switches and meters to measure pressure, missile inventory and engine heat. There are three radar screens, each on a different scale, a blinking ship schematic, and seats with sleek black helmets on each seat. Fully realizing that your actions mean life or death to your team, you sit in an unfamiliar cockpit, flex your fingers over the controls, and hoping you remember everything that you’ve been told.

The main steering, if you remember right, is essentially simple: A joystick for direction and levers for speed and nose angle. Examining row upon row of buttons before you, you crank the engines on to full power. There’s no ensuing explosion, only a quiet whir that fills the cockpit. It’s safe to assume that you haven’t set off any laser beams or worse – the self-destruct sequence. You press a few more buttons, stowing the wingtip blasters and lasers to make the ship as sleek as possible.

_Done._

You rise from the cushy driver’s seat, only for your rear end to plant itself back on the chair with an anticlimactic  _umph!_  Your left arm is pinned securely to the armrest, held firmly in place with a length of white string that’s a lot stronger than it looks. You squirm in your seat, trying to wriggle out of the sticky mess coating the length of your arm, but unless you want to walk around with a chair glued to your arm, it looks like you’re stuck in place.

And for the second time in an hour, you scream in frustration.  _“Peter!_   _Let me_  go _!”_

“ **(Y/n)** ,  _please_ ,” Peter’s voice is soft and familiar. At least it’s  _him,_ and not that scary-looking guy in the black cat suit. Your heart swells in relief when you see that he looks relatively unscathed from his abrupt tumble out the window, but the sight of him makes you feel sick all over again about what you’ve done, what you’ve said – and his willingness to toss aside years of friendship for Tony Stark. “We need to talk.”

“You have the  _worst_  timing,” You snap, baring your teeth at him. “We’re in the middle of a  _fight!_ ”

“I know. You just shoved me out of a window.”

It was meant to be a joke. It would be so easy to laugh. But you don’t. You  _can’t_.

“You were beating Sam and Bucky up! I couldn’t just stand aside and  _let_  you!” You retort, eyeing the webs gluing your arm to the chair. “How do these even come off?”

“Well, you have to use a cleaner – But that’s not the issue here! About me being Spiderman … I wanted to tell you. I really did. But there wasn’t a good time, and it wasn’t  _safe_. If – If people _knew_  that you knew, well –”

You should be touched that Peter’s looking out for you, that he’s concerned about your safety. It was as he’d said; if people knew about his friends, they might be tempted to use them against him. But you’re angry at him for lying. It wasn’t as if the omissions were  _harmless_. If you’d known, you could have done  _something_. You could have  _helped_. You could have avoided many a sleepless night spent  _tossing_  and  _turning_ , worrying and fretting about what your best friend was getting up to. And you wished that he’d given you a say in the matter.  _Surely_  you were more than capable of making up your own mind about what was dangerous and what was not.

“I can take care of myself,” You say instead, staring at a black-tinted helmet and making it hover a few inches in the air. It bobs up and down, held in place with the power of your mind. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”

It’s enough to coax a laugh out of Peter. It’s the first time you’ve heard him laugh since you’d gotten to Germany, and your heart feels lighter almost instantly. “Well, to be fair, I didn’t know about those, either. Until today. How long …?”

“Not long,” You lie – if he can, then so can you. “Discovered them about a week ago.”

You’ve had them for as long as you can remember. Your parents had discovered that you had a strange and startling ability – you could move objects with your mind. Your mom first realized it when you’d held out a hand, and a toy had floated up from the floor and into your hand. Since then, you’d quietly worked on developing the skill, as a game at first, and then more seriously, when it had become clear that the world was changing.

But you’d never used your powers to hurt anyone before.

Until today.

“Uh, what about you and Captain America?”

“He asked for my help. I couldn’t say no.” Gracelessly, the helmet drops to the floor with a  _thunk_ , rolling under one of the seats. “What about you and Stark?”

“Oh, uh, Mr Stark dropped by the house, and –”

“– And bribed you with a brand-new suit in exchange for your help?”

Peter protests weakly, “It wasn’t a  _bribe!_  He just saw a couple of those videos on YouTube, and he kind of discovered who I was –”

 _Blackmail?_  If you survive this, you’d like to slap Tony Stark, something you’ve never done to anybody in your life.

“And you’re still fighting for this guy? Peter,  _come on!_ ” You turn your head and gape incredulously at him, almost unable to believe the words coming out of his mouth. “How can you be so  _blind?_  Do you know what’s  _really_  going on here? Don’t you have a mind of your own?”

 _Spiderman? More like Mr Stark’s Little Lapdog. And why didn’t his_ Mr Stark  _tell him about the five other assassins on the loose? Or doesn’t he think it’s important?_

“Mr Stark isn’t the bad guy here! It’s  _you_ , and –” He breaks off, swallows. He doesn’t want to start a fight; he’s purposely skirting around words that might set you off. “There are  _rules_ , there are the  _Accords_ , you can’t just  _ignore_  them. You  _can’t_. That makes you –”

_Dangerous. A criminal._

You stare. This isn’t Peter. It can’t be him. For one moment, your mind flashes forwards to the situation, rapidly spiraling out of your control. You want to close your eyes. You want to cover your ears, and you want for all this not to be happening. You want to wake up in bed. Instead, a hysterical laugh bubbles its way out of your throat.

Peter’s still talking, but his voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “– But Mr Stark said that if you and the others surrendered, he could work some kind of deal out.”

He doesn’t understand.

_Is he even listening to himself?_

The chasm within you that Peter’s opened up grows wider,  _wider_ , and more blackness sweeps inside. You could almost drown in it.

“ _Arrest_  me, then _! Lock me up_ andthrow away the key!” That sour surge of satisfaction comes back all over again when Peter flinches away from the rising inflection in your voice. Causing pain with words is new for you. You wonder if this is a new power of yours. “Just don’t come running back when this is all over!”

The anger is white-hot, scorching and burning everything in its path. It’s almost enough to wash away all the guilt that you feel for shoving Peter out the jet and into a concrete wall.

_Almost._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We were never friends!” Your screams come one after another, scraping along your raw throat without pause. “I have always HATED you!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please, please review for more!

Everything happens quickly.

One moment you’re staring up at a wide expanse of blue sky, watching the jet disappear; the next, you’re surrounded by a group of soldiers rushing onto the scene in combat fatigues, pointing their guns at you.

Realization sends you backpedalling, but you run into something solid. You turn, already swinging, and nail one in the chin. He stumbles to the side and would have given you a clear shot to your friends, but three other soldiers take his place.

Before you realize what’s happening, a metal collar is snapped around your neck, sharp electrical pulses shooting through you. Suddenly, you can’t move, can barely breathe. Panic fills you, joining the adrenaline rushing through your veins, and your body isn’t sure how to react. Keep fighting, or shut down.

“W-What are they doing?” You hear Peter ask. You can’t see him, but he sounds scared. Panicked. “That’s a  _collar_. Mr Stark, you said they were only going to talk to her!”

“ _Stop it_ ,” Agent Barton snaps. “That’s a  _child_ , not an  _animal_ , get that thing off!”

Keep fighting. Definitely keep fighting. The idea of sending your SAT scores to Attica instead of Cambridge is not appealing. You unleash it all with a scream. A plane explodes in a ball of fire, shaking the ground beneath your feet. Screams of terror fill your ears. The shock wave hits everyone within a hundred foot radius, knocking them backwards. You hit the ground hard, and a wave of pain sweeps over you.

 _“Run!"_ You try to shout, but only gurgles escape.

And then that familiar voice says your name, taut with pain.

“ **(Y/n)**.” ****

It’s him.

 ** _“(Y/n),_** ” Peter tries again.

You slowly lift your head up to stare at him.

He’d known what would happen. He’d done this. He’d betrayed you.

Peter’s scrambled to his feet now, hands outstretched, almost as if he wants to touch you, but can’t quite bring himself to.

With a feral scream, you launch yourself at him. You and Peter slam onto the ground, hard. Volts of electricity shoot through you, sharp and hot and carnivorous. You open your mouth to scream. Peter takes the opportunity to shove you off of him, shooting webs to pin your hands and feet to the ground.

“ **(Y/n)** ,” Peter manages. He sounds closes to tears now, his tone as tormented as his expression. “(Y/n),  _please_ , I’m your  _friend_.”

You stare at him, your eye wild and feral-looking, your breath coming quicker and quicker from your parted lips. The pain is crashing over you in waves, the shocks making your muscles twitch and seize painfully, but you manage to raise your head, glaring at Peter with such soul-deep hatred that the blood turns to ice in his veins.

“We were  _never_  friends!” Your screams come one after another, scraping along your raw throat without pause. “I have  _always_ **HATED**  you!”

For the third time that day, Peter recoils. He goes incredibly still, so still that you notice how his hands are trembling. He’s wearing a mask, but you know that his face is contorted in misery. There’s a quiet whoosh of air, followed by the sharp stab of pain in your arm. You can only stare at the small darts in your shoulder before blackness pulls you under.

* * *

“– How is she?” A male is saying. You recognize his voice. It makes you  _angry_. Angry enough to force you out of your deep sleep, the only thing protecting you from feeling the pain in your body.

You blink, looking through eyes glassy from the strain they’ve endured. Tony Stark peers in through the glass window, looking at you as though you are a particularly interesting specimen under a microscope. Dark half-moons ring his eyes, and his arm is in a sling. You can’t find it in you to feel sympathetic for his injuries.

The anger magnifies, giving you strength. Strapped to the cot with metal shackles, you fight for freedom. Snarling like the very animal you might be becoming, you twist and buck, half-crazed eyes staring at him, wishing that you could do so much more than try to kill him with your eyes. All you receive for your trouble is another jolt of electricity. The bed shakes with the force of your shudders, the pain acute, gut-wrenching and soul-zapping. They’re going to kill you. How could they not? After a while, even your skin begins to vibrate and it doesn’t stop when the electricity does. Your bones feel brittle, as if they’re going to break at any second. Your lungs have to be filled with glass rather than air. Every breath is agony.

Tony Stark only looks at you again once your screams have stopped. His head droops.  _With shame?_  “The Spiderling wants to see you. You hurt him pretty bad.”

“ _Good_ ,” You snarl, surprised at the sound of your voice. You’ve shouted, but only a whisper can be heard. “Tell him I hate him and that I lied.”

Tony Stark closes his eyes, releasing a heavy breath. “He was doing the right thing.”

You raise your head to stare at him, eyes narrowed to angry slits. “ _No_. He was doing what  _you_  asked him to.”

Tony Stark’s mouth opens and closes, and you know he’s searching for a response. When he finds none, he turned on his heel and marches out of the room.

“Good riddance,” Clint mutters.

Scott’s the first to recover, a curious edge to his voice. “What exactly did you lie about?”

You let your head droop back onto the pillow. “Having a good time,” You dead-pan, your eyes flickering up to the ceiling. “We went out a lot.”

Scott’s the first to snort in amusement. Slowly, the others join in, Clint and Sam snickering right along with him. It’s even enough to rouse a weak and rusty-sounding laugh out of Wanda, who’s been silent for the whole week that you’ve been stuck here.

It feels good to laugh. Even for only a moment.

* * *

You wake with wet cheeks, and a warm, calloused hand tapping at your face. You hope this doesn’t mean that the doctors are back to draw more of your blood; but the doctors at the Raft would never be that gentle with you.

“ **(Y/n)**? **(Y/n)** ,can you hear me?” The voice is pained, and you think you hear a muttered curse of, “Damn it, Tony.”

The pain is a constant throb in your head and limbs, you shouldn’t move; it will only make everything worse. Wincing, you crane your head up to see who has called your name. Blinking several times, you focus as hard as you can on the only face you can see. It is contorted with anger. His eyes are the palest blue you’ve ever seen, and remind you of clear summer skies and languorous lagoons. He’s not in the red and blue uniform, but in a plain grey hoodie, a white shirt and a pair of jeans. But you would recognize that face anywhere.

“Captain,” You croak weakly. “How was Russia?”

“Cold,” He answers wryly. “I prefer a warmer climate.”

He kneels, you hear the tinkle of metal being ripped apart, and your hands and legs are free. It’s difficult to move; fatigue has added weight to each of your limbs and your eyelids feel as if they’ve been replaced with sandpaper. Captain America helps you sit up, draping his hoodie over your shoulders.

“The collar now. Okay?” He offers you a calm and steady smile, his eyes warm and kind. “One, two –”

Quick as a flash, he grasps at the collar around your neck. Your fingers dig into your palms, gouging crescent shaped marks into soft flesh. Bracing yourself for an electric shock, you nod tersely, and he breaks it apart with his bare hands. You exhale in relief, smiling faintly and wanly at him.

“We’re getting out of here,  **(Y/n)** ,” Captain America says, smoothing back soaked and matted hair away from your forehead. “Everyone’s waiting in the jet.”

You’re unable to support your own weight; he has to half-carry, half-drag you for several paces at your insistence that you can walk. When what little strength you have drains out of you, you crumple into a heap on the floor. He gives up the charade of allowing you to walk on your own and unceremoniously lifts you up off the floor and into his arms, as if you weigh nothing more than a feather. Your head lolls against his chest as he carries you out of your cell. An alarm erupts, screeching through the empty room.

“I was mean to him,” You confess groggily, your voice strained. “Very,  _very_  mean.”

“ _Him_. That kid with the webs?” Captain America bends down, and rips a badge off the neck of an unconscious guard. “The one from Queens?”

“He’s called Peter Parker,” You confirm, tears springing into your eyes. “He’s got the warmest brown eyes, and the nicest brown hair. He’s funny, he’s smart, he’s nice. He always got picked on by Flash Thompson, but Peter  _never_  let Flash bully me. He’s – well,  _was_  – my best friend.”

“I’m sorry,” Captain America apologises, the pain naked in his voice. “I shouldn’t have gotten you involved in this.  _Tony_ shouldn’t have –”

You close your eyes on a pained sigh. “Tony Stark is responsible for many things. But he didn’t make me shove Peter  _out a window_ , or  _into a concrete wall_.  _I_ did those.  _Me_. I’m a horrible person.”

Captain America uses the badge to open the door to the hallway. The two of you enter a long, narrow, passage that you’re relieved to find is empty. Maybe he’s disabled all the guards already. You can only hope. You’re tired of fighting, of having to use your powers. All you want to do is curl up in a ball and fall asleep.

“Believe me, I’ve seen a lot of horrible people. You’re not one of them.”

It doesn’t make you feel any better. You close your eyes against the pounding in your head. “I said I hated him. I hurt him, really bad. Peter hates me now.”  _And I don’t blame him._

Down the hall. Around a corner. Another hall, another corner. In the stairwell, your breathing and footsteps echo off the walls. But these are the only sounds. No one is following the two of you. Others will be here soon, though. You’re certain the alarm’s already been reported to Ross, wherever that monster is.

A pained groan slips past your lips as Captain America carries you up, up the steps. As fatigued as you are, as undernourished, as wounded, your trembling seems to magnify with every new inch of ground the two of you gain. He opens the door to the landing pad, and you see the jet you’d helped to hijack sitting right in the middle of it.

It’s dark outside. Frigid air envelopes you, worse because you’re in thin prison clothes, with only a hoodie draped over your skinny frame. The cold sea breeze whips hair around your face, and, you think, slices at your skin. You huddle closer to Captain America, exhaustion glazing your moon-soaked features.

“Hold on,” Captain America says pleadingly, and you hear the worry in his voice as he practically sprints for the jet. “There’s a first aid kit in the jet. You’re going to be fine.”

Sam yanks the door closed as soon as the two of you are on the jet, strapped in and ready to go. Without a hitch, you’re shooting across the dark sky. Bucky turns, sympathy written in his eyes. He’s been through some horrible things, too. Wanda is curled up by Clint’s side, her face gaunt and her eyes closed. Scott’s already asleep, snoring like a jackhammer in the seat by the window.

“What if he hates me?” A sob escapes you, a testament to the still-fraying rope holding back your emotions. It won’t last much longer now. “Peter  _hates_  me,  _I_  hate me,  _I’m_  –”

“ **(Y/n)** , do you want to know what I think?” Captain America asks kindly, kneeling down to look into your red-rimmed eyes, brimming with tears. He clasps your hands in his. It feels as though you’re holding the full blazing sun in your small palms, his so hot and yours so cold. “I have heard  _nothing_  but positives about Peter Parker. If this guy is as good a person as you seem to think he is, then I’m willing to bet he’ll forgive you when you apologize.”

Your chin trembles, a fresh round of tears threatening to fall. You lean forwards, pressing your face into his shoulder, and there is a sudden, hollow silence.


End file.
